


Three Towels and a Tracy

by ScribeOfRED



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Gen, Towels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2015-12-08
Packaged: 2018-05-05 16:36:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5382359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribeOfRED/pseuds/ScribeOfRED
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott Tracy needs a towel or three and does a bit of rescuing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Towels and a Tracy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Feeona](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feeona/gifts).



> A/N: Happy Birthday, Fee! You asked for it, you got it.

She never wants to see another towel again.

All she’s done for seven hours and forty-six minutes is collect sopping towels, transfer them from industrial washing machines to industrial dryers, distribute the freshly cleaned and warmed towels to a never-ending influx of sopping people, wash, rinse, dry, repeat.

She’s going to have nightmares about towels, which is odd, considering she should probably have nightmares about floodwater rising at an alarming rate.

“We need more towels over here,” a curt voice calls from the direction of the front door.

 _Come get them yourself_ , she wants to shout back, but she’s too tired and she’s been assigned her task, so she satisfies herself by muttering it under her breath as she grabs a stack of fluffy towels. Even with hours of practice, it’s difficult to make her way between the crush of too many people crammed between the painted cinder block walls of the local community center. It’s built on a bluff overlooking the city, so emergency personnel decided to relocate evacuees up here. No one’s had a moment of rest since then.

As she nears the entrance, the amount of people thickens to suffocating, and she’s jostled by elbows and shoulders that put an abrupt stop to any forward progress.

“Excuse me,” she says to the bald patch on the head of the man standing in front of her. “Step aside, please.”

“What do you want?” he snaps, whirling on his heel with a scowl that immediately eases when he catches sight of the towels perched on her arms. To her surprise, he begins pushing the people around him aside. “Step aside, everyone, make way!”

Befuddled, she steps through the gap and into a small ring of coveted open space—and finds herself face-to-chest with a man wearing a blue uniform.

 _International Rescue_ is the murmur sweeping through the gathered crowd. There have been rumors circulating for hours that International Rescue is aiding local emergency personnel. Whether they’re true or false didn’t have any relevance to her task, so she’s mostly ignored them.

It’s a lot harder to ignore the bold _International Rescue_ insignia that’s level with her eyes. If nothing else, she reasons, she’ll be able to confirm the rumors, and that’s good enough for her. She has a job to complete.

Then she tilts her head up, up, up, and wonders if she’ll ever be able to focus on her job again.

Dark hair with soft waves the persistent rain hasn’t been able to flatten out drips water down his face and onto the moisture-repellent fabric of his collar. Thick, arched brows do their best to protect eyes of the most staggering, impossible blue she’s ever seen, but stray droplets trickle past and settle on long lashes, where they glisten under the brilliant LEDs whenever he blinks.

“Um,” she says, because, really, there isn’t anything else she can say that won’t embarrass her in front of a whole crowd of strangers—and _him_.

“I need two warm towels, one after the other.” His voice is crisp, clipped with a militaristic edge, but there’s a gentleness in the core of the timbre that smooths away any potential sharpness. His is the voice of a commander who expects to be obeyed without question, and she’s powerless to resist.

The stack of towels gets passed to the closest bystander so she can remove one from the protected center of the pile. It happens to be a lurid shade of pink, and that won’t do for a man of his caliber, his stature, his... his _virility_ , so she rummages around for another that is a more seemly color.

“The one you’re holding is fine,” he murmurs, soft enough that it shouldn’t be an order, but it is—one that sends heat blooming up her throat and racing down her back to pool at the base of her spine. She ducks her head and holds the cooling towel out in his direction.

This draws forth a low sigh, frustrated or amused, she can’t tell, so she tilts her head up, up, up—and discovers the dimples chiseled into his cheeks darken to points of shadow that beg to be kissed when he smiles. How many women’s broken hearts does he carry in their tantalizing depths?

And is hers about to become the next casualty?

“—it open.”

 _Huh_? Is he... talking to her? What does he want? Should she ask him to repeat himself? Do nothing?

She doesn’t need a mirror to confirm the blush is spreading—she’s all too aware of how it’s wrapping hot and uncomfortable around her temples. The urge to flee declares war on the desire to stay, unbalances her until her weight is weaving from foot to foot.

Something she can’t identify but desperately wants to understand glints across the surface of his eyes. His voice is suspiciously neutral when he says, “Unfold the towel and hold it open. I’d do it, but...”

Her gaze drops to follow the fluid rise and fall of his shoulders, which pack full every inch of his uniform, and then her attention drops further to the drenched bundle cradled in his arms.

The drenched, _moving_ bundle cradled in his arms.

“Is that...?” She blinks, takes a step closer without thinking about what she’s doing, and is in no way prepared for him to lean down into her personal space, chin hovering so close to the messy bun she dragged her hair into hours ago that she’s not sure if he’s brushing against it or if the pleasant prickling over her scalp and down her neck is caused by nothing more than her imagination. She doesn’t dare tilt her head up to check, even though she wants to know what the curve of his jaw looks like from such an intimate angle.

“Found this guy floating in a basket.” The air between them vibrates when he speaks. “He’s fortunate it caught in some shrubs.”

 _He_ is a child, still a babe, really, tiny body swaddled in a blanket so saturated it’s leaking a waterfall over the cuff of a blue, water-wicking sleeve.

“Oh my.” She reaches up with the intention of stroking the boy’s pudgy, adorable face, only to hesitate when she realizes she’s still holding the towel. “Um.”

“Hold still,” he says, so she does, because what else can she do? He straightens to his full height, at least a foot taller than her, and in a series of movements so fast and efficient she’s left to wonder if he’s a father, he relieves the baby of his soaking blanket and sleeper, reaches over her with a long arm that’s visibly taut through its sleeve to pluck a towel from the pile, and uses it to wipe the tiny body dry.

“Here.” He tucks his hand, large and warm and tender, beneath her elbow, holds her arm steady as he transfers the baby onto the towel she has spread over her arms. Long fingers deftly wrap the towel around the tiny body, leaving it snug and secure as she cradles him against her. Blue eyes a few shades lighter than his rescuer’s stare unblinking up at her.

The rescuer in question steps back, evaluates her with a thoughtful expression, and she can’t help straightening. A smile tugs at his lips, deepening his dimples, and her heart flutters against the underside of her breastbone when he says, “I know I can trust you to find this fella’s family.”

She has to forcibly tear her eyes away from the way his throat flexes with each syllable. “Right. Um. Yes. Yes, of course!”

“Thank you.” He glances at a large, probably expensive watch, then over his shoulder at the continuing deluge. She catches the flicker of a grimace as he pushes still-dripping hair away from his face.

In a moment of daring, she braces the bundled baby against her shoulder and grabs a fresh towel, which she shoves into his hands. “Take it.”

He glances down at the powder blue fabric, tilts his head as though unsure what he’s supposed to do. Then he looks up, eyes twinkling with such mirth that she’s left breathless, and with a crisp snap of his wrists unfolds the towel.

Which he then uses to rub his hair dry.

She swallows. Would it be crass of her to ask him for his number right now?

He’s all ruffled hair and cheeky grin aimed at her and no one else when he drapes the towel over her shoulder. “Hang on to that—I might need it later.”

He sketches a nod meant for everyone gathered around and spins on his heel, long legs eating up the distance to the door. He tugs it open, only to stand aside as another group of people pour through, shivering and wide-eyed and flooding the floor with new puddles.

She loses sight of him in the crowd, and then is distracted by a woman shouting “Taylor!” and rushing towards her, arms outstretched. _Baby_ , it takes her a moment to realize, and she tries not to drop him as she passes his snuggled up form over to his mother.

She glances up in time to see Mr. International Rescue toss her a wink and a two-fingered salute, and then he’s gone, vanishing into the storm.

Her fingers trail over soft blue fabric, and she decides that maybe, maybe she won’t mind if she dreams about towels tonight.


End file.
